


Marian Hawke

by Lyrium Flower (LithiumFlower)



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumFlower/pseuds/Lyrium%20Flower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vivacious, impetuous and opportunistic, Hawke has manoeuvred her way to Hightown and is determined to paint the prim neighbourhood red. But what will it take to turn a hedonistic Jezebel into the Champion of Kirkwall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Testimony: Carver Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword
> 
> This is an ambitious project that I could never have sustained without the help and encouragement of two people. My friend and beta, strangegibbon whose sense of humour and joie de vivre is as fantastic as her eye for stray commas and wayward punctuation is hawkish; and Fever Dream whose poignant insight has been a continuing inspiration.
> 
> I must also thank the scores of wonderful writers that populate this forum and fill its pages with such excellence, they are the glittering example that the rest of us strive to follow.
> 
> Lastly, I must thank you, the reader. We do this for you. To reach out to you, to touch, to evoke with word and metaphor that commonality of experience, feeling and emotion that so infuses us that taking pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) becomes impossible to resist. We want to tell you our story and we love it when you let us know how we did.
> 
> The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to Bioware.

_**00\. Testimony** **: Carver** _

"I loved Bethany. I remember the first time I realised just how much.

We were 10 and Hawke was 14. I never called my older sister by her first name. It was such a pretty name, so feminine and soft – everything that Hawke was not – not if you were her younger brother and watched her spin her wiles. Somehow I could always see through her. Even when I was 10 and she was clutching at the cusp of womanhood. All the kids in the neighbourhood called her by our family name. It wasn't common practice. There were kids like me and Bethany who played tag out by the pastures or drew chalk circles in the dirt outside our home for hopscotch. We were Bethany and Carver and Matt and Lily and then there were the kids that Hawke hung out with. I didn't know all that they got up to when I was 10, but there was something about their gaze, something harsh and predatory, like the time I saw Gale-Barker hit on the Harmans' little servant boy. She didn't know I'd seen her, but I watched her from behind the hay bale where I was hiding.

Jarven was crying, his huge elvish eyes were red and his hands were bloody from taking the blows meant for his face. Gale-Barker's face was scrunched up in determination and she beat the little boy until she ran out of breath. Then she stopped and waited while he heaved himself back to his feet and scampered off toward the Harman farm. She watched him flee with that look in her eye. And it scared me to death.

Gale-Barker was my older sister's best friend. She was a large stout kid with a crop of dirty blonde hair and a permanent scowl; my sister was her opposite, tall, slender, raven and coy. And there was Wilker and Dirk and Wintborne. Last name only kids. They were cruel, they snuck off to the Refuge in the afternoon and stole ale when Barlin wasn't looking. They beat up the other kids for money, for kicks – just because they could. All of them were brutish and crude and they flanked Hawke wherever she went.

That afternoon, I watched my sister's best friend beat up a pauper kid and I knew, much to my sick horror, I just knew that my sister had put her up to it. I turned around and I ran back to the farm as fast as I could.

I stumbled straight into Bethany under the oak at the end of the garden. She'd given up looking for me and she and Lily were stringing blue irises for Mother. I was so happy to see her. I hugged her tight with a desperation I couldn't voice. Bethany was sweet, Bethany was nice, Bethany was good and Hawke was evil.

Growing up half afraid of my sister was not easy but then our lives had been difficult from the start. My earliest memories are so fragmented from all the moving around we did that I can scarcely recall a home before that farm in Lothering. We were always on the run because out of the five people in our family, three of us had magic. It wasn't really Hawke's fault that there was magic in the family, but I couldn't help but feel as if she'd brought it down upon us.

My father was on the run from the Circle and my mother had given up a life of ease and comfort to support him. Both my sisters had magic in their blood. Bethany was timid about hers and her streak was comforting and pretty. When I busted my knee, she could make it stop hurting with a gentle caress. She could coax a flame out of spent coal and on hot summer days she'd dip her hand in water and blow snowflakes in my face. It was a perfect reflection of my twin sister.

My older sister's magic was a reflection of her too.

I was nine years old. We had just moved to Lothering and father had been taken ill for the first time. Mother had rushed him off to Elder Miriam since we couldn't take him to the Chantry. Hawke was supposed to get us into bed but I was being difficult. I loosed a frog under her blanket and when she got into bed it gave her a scare. She tore after me, dragged me to bed and touched my head. I fell asleep instantly.

And I had nightmares. I don't even recall what I dreamt but the residual memory is enough to make the hair on my arms stand on end, even now.

Bethany had an aura about her that lightened the heart and uplifted the spirit but Hawke - being around her was simply unsettling.

I can't really say that everyone felt the way I did about Hawke. Bethany adored her, but then Bethany loved everyone. My mother, I think, shared some of my misgivings. She never said anything but did all she could to rein her in. She would stay up when Hawke was out late. Yell at her when she got into mischief, but Hawke was nothing if not smooth and Mother, I think hesitated – everyone hesitated with her. Sometimes, I think we were all a little afraid of her.

Father battled with malaise for six years before succumbing. There were long periods when he'd be fit and I remember, he spent a lot of time with Hawke before he became too ill. I don't know what they talked about during those sessions but my sister went along enthusiastically enough that I suspected he was teaching her magic.

We were an apostate family. Magic was the elephant in the room, an unspoken secret for much of our childhood. Our parents didn't speak of it in front of us so that we wouldn't grow comfortable talking about it. It was something that no one outside of the five of us could ever learn about – all our lives depended on it. It was the ultimate taboo, the deepest, darkest secret of our family.

I knew my father kept a staff under a loose floorboard in the kitchen, we always had hot water even in the dead of winter and our hearth was never cold. In the evenings, at home, he would show Bethany and Hawke little tricks to keep the unspoken out of sight. Sometimes, he would talk to them about the Fade and Mother and I heard but tried not to listen.

Then, about a year or more before he died, he started taking Hawke and Bethany out for long walks in the woods. I stayed home with Mother and we both knew what was going on but neither of us spoke about it.

After a few months, Bethany stopped going. She didn't say much about what Father taught her but only that she was happy the way things were. She wanted to grow an orchard down by the stream that formed the boundary between our farm and Elder Miriam's stead. I helped her plant the trees.

My other sister had no such plans. She went out with Father diligently every week. When he was too weak to go out, she'd lock herself in the house alone with him for her lessons. Sometimes, I wonder if she hadn't been so persistent, he would've lasted longer. Magic was taxing, it drained him. I could see it in his face every time.

Then Father died in 927 and we were on our own. Beth and I had just turned 14, Hawke was 18 and Mother wanted her to settle down. There were plenty of offers for her. She had been a beautiful child, a precocious girl and as a young woman, she was the fascination of every man in Lothering. She was of average height but slender limbs made her look taller than she was, with the perfect features and dramatic upturned eyes so blue they popped out of her face and though they called it a sultry, ready smile, I knew it to be an ever present sneer.

With Father dead, our mother became even more insecure about the magic and her widowhood. It was very difficult to make ends meet. She struggled with the farm. Bethany's produce garden took up all her time and when I turned 16, I signed up with the militia. I wanted to be a warrior and to ride into battle with glory on a magnificent destrier. I was fascinated by stories of King Maric and Teryn Loghain MacTir was my hero. I think in retrospect, I wanted to distance myself as much as could from magic and apostasy and the ever present shadow of the Circle on our family. Most of all, I wanted to get out of a house full of women.

Bethany was happy for me, though she confided that the idea of war and fighting made her fear for me. Mother was worried about that too, but I think she also just didn't want to let me go. I was the only man left in the house.

Hawke of course was livid. She raged for days, lashing me with that scathing tongue of hers, of how I would bring attention to the family, drag us into public view and all that – but it wasn't as if she had escaped anyone's notice herself.

My sister loved attention. She loved being in the centre of it – no matter how much she protested otherwise. Why else would she work tables at Barlin's every night, casting her glamour on every wandering merchant through town. Why else would she bleach out the raven hair that was a Hawke family trait and colour it a flaxen gold or rouge her lips and cheeks to the offence of every decent, chantry-going matron in town and the adoration of every adolescent. She did it because no one else would dare. Lothering was a small village in the deep south, and the fashionable salons of Val Royeaux where it was rumoured the ladies did such things were fantastic stories from another world altogether – a world my sister hoped one day to grasp.

The truth is she revelled in the spotlight, but only as long as it was firmly trained on her."

 

\- _Extract from the testimony of Knight-Sergeant Carver Hawke,_

_Reproduced with permission from the notes of Chantry Seeker Cassandra._


	2. 01 - A Bitter Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full Summary
> 
> From modest beginnings as a destitute refugee in the City of Chains, Marian Hawke has manoeuvred and manipulated her way into wealth and status; clever, vivacious and as opportunistic as she is desirable, Hawke is the newest resident of Hightown and determined to paint the prim neighbourhood red.
> 
> The years following the Deep Roads expedition have seen Hawke prosper steadily and now catapulted into wealth beyond expectation, Marian, with best friend Isabela is having the time of her life - parties in the evenings, paramours at night, shopping in the mornings and the occasional adventure in the afternoon. But fortune comes at a price; money does not buy happiness and sex does not buy love. When she finally manages to seduce a long-time mark, the triumph is followed on the heels by a bitter rejection.
> 
> Will Hawke ever come to terms with the realisation that she may have lost the only man for whom she ever felt more than a transient emotion? What will it take to turn a hedonistic Jezebel into the Champion of Kirkwall?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Age Universe and everyone in it belongs to BioWare.

_**1** _ _._ _**A Bitter Pill  
** _

Marian Hawke sauntered through the vestibule of _The Blooming Rose_ and paused at the threshold of the main lounge. The anteroom was a sprawl of opulence; the air heavy with incense, alcohol and tobacco and the dulcet tones of a zither nearly drowned beneath the din of conversation. Well-heeled denizens of Hightown lounged decadently upon garishly appointed furnishings, interspersed with Madam Lusine's glittering attractions or the occasional sight of a familiar face, not quite delighted to have been recognised.

As expected, people took note and a ripple of attention followed in her wake as she sashayed down to the bar. She was a striking woman – slender, graceful and enigmatic, and, as many women of beauty tend to be, well aware of her charisma.

"Ah the Blooming Rose! Where people come... and then go. I think you managed to send off at least a few in a hurry."

Hawke chuckled softly and drew the arm around her friend's waist tighter still, pressing the line of their bodies together. She brushed her lips across a tan cheek and winked, grinning wickedly. A little display that captured the rapt attention of a mostly male audience, as intended.

"Wine, Quintus. Get us thoroughly drunk, will you!" She lilted, eyes not leaving her companion's face as they continued to flicker with amusement.

"Don't look now, but the crabby old witch is heading this way with a murderous glare. You stole all her business –everyone is distracted by you."

Hawke snickered and threw one coy glance over her shoulder at the advancing Madam Lusine.

"Let's give her something to really bristle about." With that, she wrapped both arms around Isabela's waist, tangling her fingers in the laces of her friend's black corset and pressed her lips onto her mouth.

Never one to be outmatched, Isabela seized her artfully arranged raven hair and deepened the sultry kiss, adding to the exhibition her own dramatically sensuous moans.

"Well, if it isn't Serah Hawke. Can I get you ladies a room?"

Marian broke free first, drawing a deep breath and wiping her lower lip with a fingertip, her dark blue eyes locked into Isabela's brown gaze for an additional moment before she gave the proprietor her attention.

"Madam Lusine, how well you look. Is that Elegant's new line of rouge? It's most becoming," Hawke purred, resting her cheek against Isabela's.

The older woman scowled. She appreciated the implication that she shopped in Lowtown even less than the disruption.

"What will it be tonight?" She continued tersely, swallowing the insult with some effort.

Hawke pulled away from her friend so they could exchange a look. "What do you say?"

"I feel a hankering for someone lanky! What do you say Hawke? Taut muscles, a touch of broodiness, maybe some cold insolence." She said pointedly, the corners of her mouth curling in a smirk.

It was a harmless and oft-repeated jibe but the sudden tightness of posture and the look that flashed across perfectly schooled features was not. Isabela had no reason to doubt her friend's desire for lustful revelry was prompted by more than wanton abandon, but if there was more to it that night then she had acquired a promising clue to be followed up later.

"You haven't cheated him out of nearly enough coins yet to find him here, Isabela." Hawke rejoined smoothly without skipping a beat. "Besides there are more cheerful delights to be had here," She was thinking of the charming elf from her first visit to the establishment. "Madam Lusine?"

It was not often that the gentleman's club had occasion to entertain female patrons, yet these two were a frequent but no less fascinating departure from the norm and they held the room's attention as they browsed through the _Rose's_ better selection. Once Isabela had decided on a suitably athletic male, Madam Lusine ushered them into one of the entertaining rooms on the mezzanine.

Two decadent hours later, flush with liquor, they stumbled outside the establishment, laughing and clutching each other for support.

"That did not just happen!" Marian exclaimed somewhere between laughing too hard and trying to breathe.

"Who would've thought that old bat had a sense of humour." Isabela shook her head, bronze earrings jangling noisily; she paused to inhale and leaned against the wall to steady herself. "That was hilarious! I can't wait to tell Varric about your bad girl special!"

"I cannot believe she recognised me!" Hawke heaved as she struggled to keep herself from throwing up. "I think I am going to be sick!"

"Do you suppose she knows Sebastian?" Isabela continued, rubbing her friend's back, "Just lean back a moment, it'll be fine."

"Oh Maker's breath, I hope not! He'll never look at me the same again and Mother will be heartbroken, she's already imagining what our babies will look like." Marian looked as if she couldn't decide whether to be stricken or delighted.

"When did your mother run into him?" Isabela grinned, salivating at the prospect of more juicy gossip.

"Last week. I came home from the market and there he was, all suited up-gleaming like a new sovereign and Mother has talked of nothing else."

Isabela gave a renewed spurt of laughter, "Really? What did he want?"

"I can't imagine. All we talked about was the dog."

"You're serious?" Isabela looked genuinely surprised.

"Cross my heart- I think he congratulated him on his choice of master." Marian looked quite pleased with herself.

Isabela chuckled. "He likes you."

"He's a Chantry boy! I doubt he ever removes that chastity belt." She protested, the denial belied by an ever growing smile.

The quip made Isabela burst into another shrill cacophony of mirth that echoed in the empty street.

"If I had Andraste's head between my legs, I doubt I'd be too pressed to remove it."

Hawke stared wide-eyed at her friend for the sacrilege and then snickered even harder, pressing a palm over her mouth to muffle her hysterics. "Anders has his moments when he's not busy feeling sorry for himself."

"5 sovereigns to you, if you get into his holy greaves first." Isabela challenged, eyes gleaming at the prospect.

Marian had the grace to look scandalised for a moment before the spark lit in her eyes and a tacit acceptance was exchanged.

"I have something to show you back at the Estate, come home with me." She caught Isabela's arm and curled her hand around the elbow to tug her along.

"What if that bilge rat rents out my room!"

"The night is still young," Marian countered, pulling her along eagerly, singular of purpose once her mind was settled. "Besides, I promise, if you stay Mother will hate you no less in the morning!"

Half an hour and one diversion later, in which Hawke divested herself of dinner behind some unfortunate merchant's shrub, they reached the stoop of the Hawke Estate, still snickering uncontrollably and several sheets to the wind. When no amount of effort coaxed her key into the lock, Isabela snatched it from Hawke and opened the door to let them in.

"The coast is clear." She announced, craning her neck to reconnoitre the main hall while Hawke struggled to remove her soiled boots.

"Hello dog, and don't bark."

The great Mabari sprawled before the hearth, stared quizzically at the two drunken women that crept, stumbled and giggled their way into the library.

"So, you dragged me here for a reason - out with it."

Isabela sank into an over-sized leather chair, throwing one leg over the armrest while Marian retrieved a pair of goblets from the mantelpiece and stoked a fire in the grate. "Here," she handed a goblet to her confidante.

"What's this Hawke? More wine? You're going to pass out, I'm telling you – you're a terrible lightweight."

"I am not!" She protested, gingerly drawing a large bottle wrapped in twine from a basket on her desk. "Behold." She declared, presenting it with a dramatic flourish.

"No!" Isabela was no longer reclined as surprise and confusion raced across her face. "Aggregio!" She examined the label amazed. "Tell me you didn't!"

Hawke grinned, smug as a magpie, and continued, "Fenris says all Tevinter wine is made from the blood and tears of slaves. I do hope he was exaggerating."

"You stole his wine?"

"Shall I pour for you?" With a decisive pop, the cork came off, filling their senses with a subtle, full-bodied aroma.

Isabela held out her goblet, "He will kill you for this, you realise? With that hand thing he does. I'd put a wager on it."

"I didn't steal anything." Hawke filled both their chalices and took a sip, savouring the delicate bouquet. "Exquisite."

"If you didn't steal it..." Isabela was not to be distracted.

Marian held her friend's gaze in silence, drawing out the moment – building anticipation as any good gossip would but there were hints betrayed by her otherwise smooth mask – the tiniest of tells, like the subtle twitch in her smile or the slight waver in her voice that revealed themselves to a sharp observer.

"He brought it himself."

Isabela arched a thinly groomed brow.

"Last night. He came to apologise." Hawke smiled gamely, satisfied now that she had her friend's rapt attention. "For running off in a snit after that Hadriana affair - you were there." She took another draught and swilled the remainder around in the cup, waiting for another prompt.

Isabela had leaned forward now, completely enraptured by the information. "And?"

"And," Hawke grinned triumphantly, swooping in for the punch line, "you owe me a lot of sovereigns."

"You slept with him!" Isabela's shriek could have shattered glass.

"Quiet!" She chastised half-heartedly; her face beaming. "Mother's just up the stairs."

Isabela leaned back again, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. "You little vixen! So how was it?"

"Fantastic." Marian supplied easily, raising her glass to the memory. "Exhilarating – everything I could have imagined." It was all true, the sudden rush of blood at the memory confirmed it.

Isabela looked impressed and pleased. "What happened afterwards?"

"Afterwards, he left." She said casually but did not meet her friend's eye, reaching instead to sip from her wine. This tiniest falter in her mask was noted at once.

"Will you do it again?" Isabela pressed, sensing something unresolved behind her friend's serene exterior.

Marian flinched at the probe and tensed, fingering some porcelain bauble on the mantlepiece. After a rallying moment, she looked up and smiled, shrugging with perfect indifference – the 'perhaps, perhaps not' not needing to be said.

"Then he is fair game?" Her friend's smile was wide, pleased at the prospect of renewing the pursuit and yet tentative.

A cascade of unsavoury feelings to which she had fancied herself immune swept over her, the reaction so unfamiliar and baffling that it took her a while to realise that the maelstrom was only her heart in revolt.

As the turmoil receded, anger rose in its wake – at that night, at him but most of all at herself – at her own moment of weakness, for that embarrassing instant in which she was her mother, throwing caution to the wind for a man. It was pathetic and disgust mixed into the dismay she already felt.

She snatched up her goblet and there reflecting in the polished silver was her face, looking unravelled and far too much like Leandra. A little more wine and a comfortable numbness settled over her.

"Of course." She said, as if the very question was preposterous and met Isabela's eyes, clamping down hard on her heart's absurd fit of rebellion.

With a nonchalant little wave of her hand, she dismissed the sentimentality as beneath her.

It was a fairly short walk from her home to the end of the marketplace where the stairs began their winding descent into Lowtown and Hawke insisted on accompanying Isabela on her way back to the Hanged Man, at least as far as this point.

"So, I'm thinking," began Isabela as they reached the edge of the stairs and paused to say goodbye. "Aveline will want to re-do that whole patrol-date thing seeing how we were sidetracked yesterday what with Fenris being ambushed."

Hawke nodded, "I intended to insist upon it, if she did not."

"Good! Don't leave me out of it. I'd hate to miss seeing her make a fool of herself."

"You are such a hopeless romantic." Hawke laughed.

"Oh, don't I know it."

There was a moment of silence as they finished laughing and allowed the conversation to end.

"Tonight was a fun diversion; still on for Harlan's rave at the docks tomorrow, with Varric?" Isabela added, and then after a brief instant of hesitation, reached to embrace the other woman.

Hawke responded in kind, replying, "Never miss it. I told you there's fun to be had in Hightown."

"Indeed." She admitted and then quite unexpectedly, met Hawke's lips in a kiss.

It was cautious at first and when Hawke did not pull away, she let it linger. It was hardly the first time they had shared something sensuous, but there was tenderness in it that was out of character.

"Goodnight Marian." Isabela whispered, pulling away and patting her cheek softly. "Don't pass out on the street now."

With that, she turned around and left, leaving Hawke touched and a little surprised, watching her descend until she was obscured from view. Her first instinct would have been to check if there was someone around that would have been offended, for Isabela was as fond of ruffling sensibilities as she, but it was far too late in the night to hope for polite audience. As she turned around to leave, the only conclusion she could draw was that they had had far too much drink and that it was just as well that she had resolved on a walk before bed to allow her head to clear a little.

In fact, in the spirit of things, she decided to take the long way home, through a few blocks of the smaller and less affluent homes on the west side. It would give her some more time to dwell upon the mortifying and disastrous demise of her most recent liaison.

It had started out innocently enough. When she had first met the runaway Tevinter slave, she had been instantly captivated by him. It was not simply because he was pleasing to look upon, which he was, in a deliciously lean, battle-hardened way but because he owned whatever room he entered, and instantly commanded attention. That he was oblivious of this only made it more attractive. But there was more. He didn't fawn upon her like others, in fact they could hardly get along - she always had the sense during their frequent arguments that he was a hair's breadth from running her through with his sword - but it made the challenge of counting him a conquest to her charms all the more enticing.

Marian was accustomed to having her way. She had learned early in life that she was beautiful and dangerous and believed the two gifts in tandem entitled her to whatever she pleased. That he was mostly indifferent to the former and hardly tolerated the latter had necessitated a more subtle approach, but one which had been painfully slow to mature. Three years she had played this game with him, riling him enough to stir his passion and bring the simmering tension between them to boil, then appeasing his anger with the right platitudes or coyly deflecting it with her wit. Sometimes, he rewarded her with a slight curving of his mouth or even a riposte of his own. She had grown to cherish these because each represented a tiny increment of progress toward her goal, or so she believed.

Now at long last, the achievement was hers but at its heels followed another, one far less gratifying. There had been plenty of trysts abandoned after a single night in her time. In many cases these partings were mutual and in others, someone had been left behind to pick up the pieces. But from the first crudely drawn heart received at age eight to countless affairs in over a decade and a half since, she had never even contemplated the possibility that she could find herself left alone in a rumpled bed.

Despite her beauty and charm and all the seductive guile at her disposal when she had recovered, soaring on the most sublime afterglow of her life and eager to repeat the experience, she had found herself slapped with rejection.

Oh, he had been polite enough and his 'it's not you, it's me' oration was most earnest but she had heard it from her own lips far too many times to be fooled. Once the deed was done, she expected her ardour to fade, instead she found herself desperate to salvage something of it and waylaid her dignity as surely as she had her underclothes. And he had called it a mistake that should not have happened. Rejection was bad enough but that flicker of horrified revulsion in his eyes and the need reflected in her own made it so much worse.

The realisation that the three years she had invested in seducing the man had returned an ironic reversal, with herself not only seduced but then also discarded, was a bitter pill indeed. And no matter how angry and indignant she felt, she had a sense of looming catastrophe -very like the time she had sat down to take stock of the family's debts after her father succumbed to his long and expensive illness and knew, even before the accounts were balanced, that the true extent of the loss was beyond her estimation.

The cobblestones beneath her feet were slick with damp from the frosty offshore wind that swept through the towering, stony edifices of the Estates. Up here, at the very summit of Kirkwall, the night fell thick and quiet, far removed from the Lowtown bustle that endured through all hours of day or night.

Where the narrow alleys and treacherous staircases of the former slave quarter filled out with cat-calling whores and rowdy drunkards once evening fell, they remained stark and deserted in Hightown except for the occasional party of revellers returning home late from the _Rose._

Hawke had grown lax living in Hightown, no longer stealing a glance over her shoulder around every corner nor starting at every crunch of gravel in the shadows. It was easy to become accustomed to safety when not having to snatch it desperately from the jealous fingers of chance.

So she did not notice the silent, invisible forms that slithered through the shadows and crept into a circle around her until they barred her path.

"Nowhere to run, Fereldan whore."

Hawke stopped short and too late, spinning around to enumerate the threat. Though the thick fog of inebriation and soft living had weighed down her instincts, her skills had not faded in the years since the Deep Roads expedition. The presence of muggers in Hightown was somewhat surprising but she showed no panic, for no-one who has lived any amount of time in Lowtown can remain oblivious to such dangers and devoid of some contingency against them.

"I left my purse at home, there's nothing to rob - sorry." She replied casually, estimating the best way to contain the bandits and debilitate them long enough to escape.

She was no warrior and entertained no delusions of combat. She did not possess the abilities her sister had of harnessing the elements to defend her, nor had bothered to learn from Merrill how to turn nature and the earth against enemies in the way of the Dalish.

Most of her skills were of a decidedly non-violent persuasion and in the vein of her only expertise – manipulating things to her advantage, and, when that failed, reinforcing her position with a posse of devoted enforcers. As a teenager, this had been the gang of local bullies enticed into her service with stolen liquor and vague romantic hopes and when they fled to Kirkwall, Carver and Aveline had filled that role for years. Since then her brother had rebelled, and the aspiring templar no longer spoke with the apostate sister. At least he hadn't reported her to his superiors as she had feared at first.

Still, there was a defensive trick or two her father had drilled into her to evade enemies (and mages on the run, always had plenty of those). There was also the Mabari. He had followed them out of the house when she left with Isabela and was likely near enough that a whistle would summon him to her aid.

"So if you," she noticed that each and every one of the bandits was a woman, "kind ladies will allow, I'll be on my way and my friend the Guard Captain will be ever so pleased to hear I never ran into any of you."

"You're goin' nowhere, missy!" The woman in the centre snarled. Hawke figured her for the gang leader if the size of the hammer she waved was any indication. "I knows where you live – that big corner house, I bring you to Gracious and she'll squeeze out big coin from your folk."

Hawke cringed at the mutilation of grammar, "I hope Gracious will be gracious enough to overlook your stupidity when you get your whole gang killed. I am not without weapons."

That did not have the desired placating effect. The gang leader erupted with a violent cry and came at her with the hammer. Hawke had a moment to react and summoned a basic but powerful blast of arcane force to throw her attacker off balance and stun everyone else who converged upon her. She retreated as far as she could to avoid being flanked, the little spell had only bought her a moment and quickly she whistled for the dog, reaching to draw her staff, and finding to her horror that she had not carried it with her.

As the gravity of her situation sank in, her confidence from a moment ago evaporated in a fit of panic. Without a staff to channel mana, she was effectively neutralised.

Everyone who had ever warned her against venturing outside alone after dark now paraded through her thoughts chastising her for her foolishness. She made to run, bolting towards the end of the street where it joined with the main avenue, praying Aveline's patrol was not at the other end of the district, but the spell was wearing off and the unsure swing of someone's axe cut her off, the blade slamming just inches from her feet.

"You got a bit a' hocus pocus, little missy?" It was the gang leader again, shaking off the last cobwebs of magic from her mind and bearing down with that monstrous hammer larger than Hawke's own torso. "Maybe I'll get more money off you from those Gallows templars. They say ye get extra fer the pretty 'uns!"

Hawke backed quickly out of the hammer's range, but more and more bandits were shrugging off the effect and they all came for her, multiple weapons glinting in the light of the moon. She was a flurry of movement – ducking and twisting, trying to stay out of the arcs of various deadly weapons any one of which could slice her in two until finally resorting to the time-tested expediency of screaming for help.

"No one's comin' to yer help at this time o' night." Someone growled to her right and she narrowly avoided a sword thrust that would have skewered her.

Suddenly, something so large and heavy collided with her that for a moment it felt she had been knocked out of her body. She crashed into the pavement. Her head swam nauseatingly, her body exploded in pain as her vision clouded and she retched violently. Vaguely, she grew aware of barking nearby and more yelling as someone went down to the ferocious war dog that had entered the fray.

There was a brief moment of respite while the bandits ignored her in their attempt to contain the vicious attack hound but any hope that flickered was short lived. She knew they would likely kill her pet and then return for her anyway. The thought twisted her heart. She had to act. Wincing with pain, she crawled to her feet. The diversion had bought her time. She could have turned and run for her life but instead she dug into her reservoirs and cast another spell.

When she opened her eyes, completely drained, the bandits surrounding her dog stood motionless, instantly asleep on their feet.

"Good dog! You came!" She gasped, heaving with exertion and pain. "Now get out of here, go get help." She ordered but the dog merely tipped his big head and whined.

There was no time to stand around and argue with an animal. She had barely finished the thought when the beast came rushing in her direction. She spun around as he streaked past her and beheld the looming leader of the gang. The large woman grinned, hefting the hammer and batted off the charging Mabari. He collided into an adjacent wall and collapsed into a whining heap.

"Bitch" Hawke yelled, limping in a circle around her, painfully aware of how much a blow from that hammer hurt. She was far from certain she could survive another one. It hurt even to breathe. "Back off! I'm warning you, you won't be happy when I crush your lungs." It was a bluff; Hawke did not think she had enough energy to remain upright much less cast a spell of that magnitude.

Behind her, the bespelled bandits began to stir. The fell hammer came at her again and she dodged sideways, using the instant in which the gang leader regained her balance to strike, kicking her heel into a kneecap, hoping to break something vital. The woman went down with an agonised scream but Hawke had no time to exult in that small victory before someone surprised her from behind.

White hot pain shot through her and she screamed, sinking to her knees as warm, thick blood seeped down the back of her pearly pink evening robes. Her face hit the cold stone and as the warm trickle pooled around her head and neck she grew dimly aware of a new commotion. Yelling pierced the night air, and wild cries echoed off the stone; steel clashed against steel occasionally punctuated by the thick wet sound of it running through flesh.

Suddenly she was transported back to Ferelden and that terrible day with the horde pouring into Lothering, cutting people down. The screams of women and children, the palpable fear as she and Carver herded the family through back alleys and side streets, the town burning down around them until everything was lost to thick black fog.

"Get up."

Someone shook her and the pain that sliced through her body dragged her from the brink of sweetly tempting oblivion. She swore but all that came out was a moan. Why couldn't they let her sleep? She was so tired...

"Stay awake, Hawke."

Strong hands gripped her under the arms and hoisted her up. She caught the flash of a dull blue glow and struggled to find her legs until the blade still lodged in her back shifted with the movement and searing pain shot through her with an intensity that made her black out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful beta, strangegibbon whose irreverence is an enduring delight; Fever Dream of FF.net for the invaluable advice and to everyone who's reviewed and followed.


	3. 02 - Point, Counterpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Age Universe and everything in it belongs to Bioware.

_**2\. Point, Counterpoint** _

There was someone holding her eyes open to a blinding flash of light, and she tried to squeeze them shut against it.

"There's pupil reaction. Hurry. She's slipping." A warm familiar voice filtered through what felt like bales of wool packing in her ears. "There's haemopneumothorax, severe internal contusion-possibly multiple rib fractures. We to need to drain the wound quickly. I need an injury kit, or two. Make it three, she's haemorrhaging."

"Do you know what you're doing?" Another familiar voice, it was rich and deep. She tried to crane her neck toward it but her head seemed to be restrained. "The Hospitaliers at the Circle-"

"Are you mad?" The former voice cut him off, "do you think they'll just let her walk out again? Go away."

"She might live." The voice reverberated in all the right places with her; she wanted to sink into it, barely even registering the conversation.

"She'll be Tranquil."

"But alive."

"There's nothing they can do for her that I can't, now get out of my clinic."

Suddenly, a glow enveloped her. Comforting warmth spread slowly through her veins. Her eyes rolled back and she was lost to nothingness again.

Hawke woke chasing strange dreams in the Fade that vanished as soon as her eyes opened. Muted sunlight poured through; diffuse beams that dappled her surroundings in large swatches of light and dark. Ambient noises started to register with her, the low gurgle of pipes and the grind of shifting metal, the din of a milling crowd not too far away, the chatter of voices nearby, the clink of utensils and other little sounds that were mundane but strange to wake up to. As she inhaled, the cloying stench of death and sewage overlaid with antiseptic tincture burrowed into her nostrils.

Slowly, as her mind emerged from the depths of sedation, she grew aware that she was not alone, and certainly not at home in her bed. The cold, hard press of stone beneath her suggested she was not even on a mattress. Her eyes drifted around, slowly taking in her surroundings and when she couldn't identify her whereabouts, panic set in. With a start, she attempted to push herself upright but pain stabbed through the whole of her back and something sharp and stinging pinched her skin. The combination made her cry out, only to learn she was parched. Her head pounded, her back smarted and her limbs were a dead weight.

Slowly, memories of the night before trickled back and a face merged into her vision. Recognising the flat planes of the cheeks, the soft kind eyes and generous mouth smiling at her through day old bristles banished her earlier alarm and she relaxed, the sedatives coursing through her blood buoying her up on a sense of serene well being.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." She tried to be charming but her voice came out in a decidedly unattractive croak.

"Shh. Don't talk. Here." He pressed something cold and hard to her parched lips. It was ice and it alleviated her discomfort. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Marian thought the healer was definitely less morose in his bedside manner. Also more attractive, how had she never noticed that little crinkle in the corner of his mouth when he smiled?

"Hawke?" He was smiling at her now and she felt elated.

"Partying," she replied, shifting attention to his question and wincing at all the black holes in her recall, "with Isabela." It was difficult to speak and Anders placed the ice cube back on her lips before she thought to ask. He was so good to her. She resolved to make him cookies or to trick her mother into making him cookies – she was hopeless at baking. She beamed up at him.

"Some party." He was still smiling, and Hawke decided the halo of sunlight framing his head made him look like a spirit of virtue and fluffy bunnies. "You had a six inch knife in your back, crushed lungs from massive blunt trauma and several broken ribs."

"Trauma Bay." She stated vaguely, beginning to drift again.

Confusion marred his perfect features. "What?" It had sounded cleverer in her head.

"Wounded Coast." She added by way of explanation, still pleased at her own joke.

He grinned, revealing a row of perfect pearly whites. "Do you know why you're so happy right now?"

Of course she knew. She was in love.

"You're loaded up on pure lyrium." That did seem a better explanation. "Now try to remember what happened."

She frowned. Flashes of memory returned to her, the bandits, the ridiculously large hammer that had slammed into her – a dense cloud hung over the details. "Attack." Suddenly, she remembered more and her heart snagged. "Where is he?"

"Fenris?" Anders inquired, his pleasant expression morphing into one of distaste. "He wanted to turn you into the Circle."

Hawke blinked.

"I thought you were dying." The accused retorted marching in, dominating the room with his presence even though he was out of sight. "And I didn't think he was up to the task."

Her heart sped up at the sound of his voice, so rich that it was a sin. Each syllable slipping into her ears and curling up her insides, every word an indulgence - a wicked and guilty pleasure – as luscious and decadent as dark chocolate and just as bitter. His voice thrilled her to hear it even as his words made her bristle. Her buoyant mood gave way to one of annoyance. Anders had delivered at every turn; he had proved himself invaluable and deserved no-one's scorn.

"Thank you for having care of me." She rewarded the medic with a smile and he glowed predictably, but she pressed on feeling uninhibited. "You have such...skillful fingers."

The innuendo was lost on no one. Anders leaned gently over her, brushing a lock of her hair out of the way, her words giving him the confidence to stake a claim while the other glared, smouldering where he stood – she could sense him radiating anger even out of her line of sight. The standoff was amusing really, Isabela would have been delighted.

All of a sudden, he sprung into motion. One stride and he was hovering over her, face set in grim lines. Her eyes knew exactly where to find the little nick under his right brow or the small, insignificant groove across the bridge of his nose or the exact point over his chin where the lyrium veins were just slightly asymmetrical. His hair caught the light, glinting like silver and falling over his eyes. Isabela was right, by the Maker, they were beautiful. The last time she had gazed into those large olive irises was when he was braced over her and inside her and if Marian had been any other woman, the vivid memory scrambling her mind may have coloured her cheek, but she let it pass over her. She was of stronger stuff.

At present he was livid and his mere proximity raised the heat in her blood, in good ways and bad.

"You damned fool!" He hissed, and then swore unintelligibly in Tevinter or Qunari or whatever he muttered from time to time. "What if I had not been there?"

Anders reacted by trying to insert his arm between them. "Stop harassing my patient! Back off!"

"Where is he?" She interrupted them. The bickering could wait. "My dog."

Both men stared at her.

Fenris spoke first, recovering a little. "Chasing rats near the old mining tunnels. He's fine." He ground out each word.

"She needs to rest now." Anders insisted, clutching a shoulder to pull him away from the surgical bench. "You should leave."

"I'll be outside," He said, shrugging off the mage, eyes fastened upon Hawke. "When you are ready, I will take you home." Then he turned and swept out of the room, leaving a silence reminiscent of the stillness in a storm's wake.

After the moment passed, Anders turned back to her. "Now wasn't that a pain. Would you like something to soothe you?"

Once he mentioned it, Hawke realised that she was indeed throbbing all over. She nodded.

"This will help." He placed a hand over her forehead and a healing glow surged through her body, washing away all sundry aches and pains. "Now sleep."

She went out like a snuffed candle.

"Take one of these for pain, but not more than four in a day." Anders explained, tucking a packet of tiny red vials into her hand. "Go home and rest and I can take the stitches out in a few days." He cradled her face with both hands and looked into her sapphire eyes. He could pretend it was to reinforce his advice but Hawke suspected he just wanted to be familiar, perhaps even for the benefit of the elf leaning against the wall, brooding and glaring at them darkly.

"I won't get out of bed at all." Hawke let him have her gaze and he smiled, stroking her cheeks with his thumb.

"All right, then." He gingerly helped her off the bench. "No more parties like that one."

Hawke chuckled and shook her head, allowing him to assist her although she was confident she could have managed on her own.

She found her feet and stood, adjusting the remnants of her clothes so that they were serviceable enough for the trip home. When she looked up, sensing a change in his mood, she met not the affably pleasant expression she had been admiring previously but a wretched one as he stood before her wringing his hands. She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to share and regretted her curiosity the moment he snatched that cue and launched.

"I was meaning to talk to you for a while. There is something that weighs heavily on my heart and Justice is ill at ease. I know you sympathise with the plight of Kirkwall's mages."

In the corner, Fenris snorted derisively. Hawke did not so much as sympathise with mages as delight in outwitting templars. Her forehead furrowed and she exhaled with a long-suffering sigh. He had been so sweet too without all the melancholy. It was such a pity it was back. She nodded as gravely as she could, though her insides had begun to squirm already at the prospect of what he wanted from her. She resolved to refuse outright if it was a re-draft of his manifesto that he wanted her to proof read. She glanced at Fenris wondering if she could convince him to do it. She suppressed the giggle that nearly burst through at the idea and maintained an even expression.

"Have you noticed how many Tranquil are in the Gallows courtyard lately?"

Hawke walked out of the clinic much later than she had planned with Fenris cursing Anders under his breath as he tended to from time to time.

"Why do you hate him so- I'm no different- and what if he is right? Would you see me made Tranquil?" They reached the steep set of stairs that led down from the clinic and she stopped, contemplating how to negotiate the steps without pulling her stitches.

Fenris came around. "Can you get down?"

Hawke tossed her head and took the first step, but it made her wince. "I should manage."

Yet he was having none of it, and caught her arm. "Let me."

"What? You want to lift me, Fenris?" Hawke shook her head. "Can't touch my back, remember?"

He smirked and spun her around to face him, capturing her eyes. His hands slid around her waist, then travelled south, rounding over her curves, grasping the back of her thighs to pull her flush against him. Marian felt her breath hitch in her chest. His arms flexed and she felt the slip of his muscles pressed into her flesh as he lifted up. Her legs drew around him and she placed her arms around his neck; their bodies sliding into a well remembered fit. She did not avert her gaze from his eyes. Some masochistic part of her wanted to know if his mind had wandered to the same memories. Whether there was desire, maybe even regret lurking beneath.

He glared right back at her, steely as ever. No words disrupted the communion between them but her mind raced, churning with desire. She wanted to push him against the stairwell wall, claim his mouth and drink him in, bury him within her. The need so intense, it was a physical discomfort.

Yet all too soon, they reached the bottom of the stairs and he dropped her abruptly, unconcerned when she faltered a little, gasping for the breath that she had neglected to draw on the trip down. He moved forward without a backward glance and she was forced to hurry after him.

"You are not weak." He said once she was abreast of him. "That is the difference."

A dozen witty remarks formed in her head but she voiced none of them, concentrating instead on keeping pace. It was much harder than usual as he marched them without pause through the narrow, filth-strewn alleys lined with beggars holding a hand out for coin.

Hawke avoided looking at them. Most were Fereldan like her, refugees that never made it out of grinding poverty, now driven into the bowels of the city, subsisting on whatever they could scrape from the refuse. It was a festering pit, full of hunger and disease and people reduced to living like rats, among rats. Even making it to that squat shack of her uncle's had been a boon compared to what this multitude endured. If she had coin in her pockets she would have handed it out as she invariably did whenever she was forced to come down here; not for charity as much as to assuage the guilt she felt for her own relative affluence – for having escaped when so many with whom she had docked all those years ago, had not.

"Keep up, Hawke. We must move on." Fenris chided, turning around and seizing her upper arm to pull her along. "I want to see you home before nightfall."

Hawke bristled, pursing her lips in a line and hating that she was holding them back, but she was tiring and her back rippled with pain. It took all her strength to maintain the pace, leaving none for retorts. Besides, he was right. Darktown was dangerous and it was a long walk home through Lowtown beyond.

Another flight of stairs and Fenris reached for her, lifting her in the same way as before. It was agony being so close to him. The scent of his skin in her nose, the taste of him almost on her lips. If he was affected by her when she was wrapped around him, he never succumbed to holding her a moment longer than necessary and while Marian could scarcely tame her thundering heart, he betrayed no loss of composure at all.

By the time they had climbed back to Lowtown, Hawke was exhausted; the trek and the tension having sapped most of the strength she had regained.

"Please, a moment." she said as they made the final landing. "I must catch my breath." It was a grudging surrender but there were more stitches in her sides than she had set out with in her back. She leaned against a parapet and drew a long breath. Lowtown was no garden but the air was still fresher than the dank, sewage vapour beneath the city. The evening sun dazzled her eyes and she squinted against it.

"You need more exercise and less drink." He scoffed, casing their surroundings carefully as was his habit. Once satisfied with that, he found a cobweb clinging to a spiky pauldron and dusted off his leathers with the same care. He never looked at her once.

Hawke glared at him slack-jawed and indignant, unable to think of a single retort. Beneath the aggravation, there was a stirring of self-doubt, had she really put on weight?

"About what happened," She began after much hesitation, deciding to ignore the gibe and file it away for later consideration.

"Save it. It is done. There is no need for a dissection." Fenris cut her off, and when Marian looked into his face it was unyielding.

It dawned on her that he was talking not of the night before, but the one before that. She studied his expression blankly, giving no sign that her emotions were churning as hope and dismay surged and she fought to contain both. The admission that it had been on his mind, as it had been on hers gave her hope but the cutting finality of his words dashed it again, leaving her ever more wretched. She looked away.

"Last night," She began again, trying and failing to keep a waver out of her voice. The segue she had chosen could have been mistaken for a correction of subject but the truth lay exposed between them in the rawness of her voice.

He glared at her. "How could you be so foolish."

Hawke snapped her head back to meet his anger. "I am not a child, Fenris. It was a short walk, one I have taken countless times." She countered, letting some feeling into her tone. She could be angry too. She could be very angry. She wanted to throw something at him, just to underline the point. "I did not think-"

"Yes, you did not think." He was in her face in one motion, caging her against the parapet where she stood. "You did not think that anyone could be your equal, your match. You traipsed about like you were master of all, but you were not, were you? You aren't."

Marian stared in shock at his face and the anger it harboured, caught like a deer in the sight of a drawn arrow. Air abandoned her lungs and she could not draw breath to reply. His words ripping as surely, as if he had reached inside and clenched her heart in his fist. Her hand clasped to her chest involuntarily as if to make sure his arm had not indeed phased through her body and only when she was certain she was inviolate that her lungs recovered function. This was no longer about last night. This cut ran deeper.

"How dare you!" She hissed, "You lout! How dare you!" She pushed against the prison of his arms but he did not give. "Release me at once!"

"Listen to me." He continued but Marian was willing to hear none of it.

"Unhand me, right now." She struggled to pry his arms from around her, "One thought, and you'll be sprawled on the ground, Fenris. I swear it."

"You know how that will end."

Marian cringed at the memory of the Fade, Feynriel, the Pride Demon and the battle of which he spoke. It had lasted all of two moments: two quick strokes and he had cut her down before she could cast a cantrip. Duelling was not her strong suit.

"When you helped me against Danarius' men, I made a promise." He spoke into her ear and she shivered, literally and embarrassingly. Her cheeks were inflamed with anger and indignity and whatever it was that he did to her. "Allow me to keep it." Her heart beat so fast she thought she would faint. "I brought you back from the Deep Roads in one piece."

"I need air."

"Heed this, you will go nowhere - at all- without me," She started to squirm, "and I will keep you alive." His hands were around her waist as he held her pinned against the low wall and she could feel the warm press of his fingers against her skin, even through her robes. Whether he had pushed the pads of his digits through the fabric with his strange lyrium powers, she did not know but she knew her knees were weak and her stomach was in delicious, excruciating knots. "Do we have an understanding?"

"Fenris." She breathed harshly, redoubling her effort to free herself.

"Hawke." As suddenly as he had captured her, he had released her, leaving her to scramble for breath and composure and put herself to rights before hastening after him toward Hightown.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm grateful to my beta strangegibbon for her constant support and encouragement.

**Author's Note:**

> TBC


End file.
